


I'll Pull You Through

by RidleyMocki



Series: Teen Wolf Collection [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent (mentioned), BAMF Stiles, But wow lots of angst before that, Cuddling, Declarations Of Love, Derek Has Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Good Will Hunting allusions, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Hurt Derek, Hurt/Comfort, Jackson Whittemore (mentioned) - Freeform, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marvel movie watching, POV Alternating, PTSD, PTSD symptoms, Peter Hale (mentioned) - Freeform, Settles on Derek's POV half way in, So much angst, Stiles is awesome at helping Derek, kinda sorta I mean they don't say it but let's be real they meant love, trigger warning: suicidal thoughts/attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RidleyMocki/pseuds/RidleyMocki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles knocked on the door as loud as he could, but he realised the sound of crashing furniture coming from the other side of it would have been enough to drown out the sound, even for a werewolf. A grim chill shivered down his body when he heard Derek roar. It was like the final crescendo of every growl Stiles had ever heard from the man. Any remaining doubt in his head vanished to make way for a very singular thought.</p><p><em>Have to get in. Have to be there</em>."<br/>........................................................................</p><p>While watching a movie with the pack, a piece of dialogue sends Derek into a traumatic flashback and hallucinatory PTSD episode. After he throws everyone out he spirals downwards. Until, of course, Stiles comes back with something he desperately needs Derek to know: none of it was Derek's fault.</p><p>Comfort, realisations, and declarations ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Pull You Through

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beautiful people! I really needed a fic where someone held Derek tight and told him it wasn't his fault, any of it. Obviously that person is Stiles. 
> 
> General disclaimers: Peter isn't present but his vague influence is that of a total asshole, no quirky-but-loveable-uncle, here. Boyd and Erica could still be alive, they're not mentioned, but if you want them alive, you can totally read this fic that way. The perspectives at first shifts between Derek and Stiles' POVs so you get both sides, but it settles on Derek's POV about half way in. This fic is super self-indulgently detailed, like it's nearly 10k but it only covers a couple of hours of time at most, so if you are happy to revel in tiny details and for things to go deliciously slowly, APPARENTLY that's my style. Finally, THERE IS NO SEX IN THIS FIC, and I'm upset about that too, but this is also meant to be the beginning of something huge for these characters, it's brand new, and given the shit Derek goes through earlier in the fic, I thought just cuddling was sufficiently intimate.
> 
>  
> 
> _*Trigger Warning: this fic includes depictions of PTSD symptoms such as flashbacks and hallucinations. This fic contains depictions of suicidal thoughts and a sort-of suicide attempt. Be careful, lovelies.*_
> 
>  
> 
> **A HUGE thank you to my amazing platonic soulmate and total partner in crime, Izzy Mossycoat.** (mossqueen on ao3, check her out, she's phenomenal). She beta'd this, and continues to hold my hand through fic-writing crises. Izzy, my dearest, you threw me into the dark void that is the Teen Wolf fandom and I'll never forgive you, so you better enjoy this, jerk. Love you <3
> 
> ENJOY!!

“Get out. Get out!” Derek furiously shouted as he shoved the group out of the loft, pulling at them to leave with liberal strength. 

Isaac made an affronted whimpering sound as he was exiled. Lydia started to say something that would have surely turned into shouting had she not been cut off by being whipped around and similarly exiled. Scott bore an expression of shock prettily coloured with anger, but left in full control of his steps. Stiles just appeared dumbfounded and was, by the small mercy of some god or another, absolutely speechless.

Maybe Derek pushed them a little roughly, maybe his voice had an edge to it that he would regret later, but the sickening blackness that was coiling in his belly was somehow seeping into his vision, and in the end he didn’t take much notice of any of their faces. He pushed them out, it wasn’t difficult, though perhaps this time was more literal than the times he had done so in the past. He shut the door with furious desperation and plastered his forehead to it, until he could feel the imperfections of its surface dig into his skin. He stayed there for three seconds as his mind claimed him. In the fourth second he started throwing things.

*

Stiles walked out of the building feeling, despite being surrounded by the others, utterly lost. 

It had all been going fine. The four of them had gone over for a pack meeting to discuss one in an unending succession of supernatural problems threatening the pack, but Allison had been called away, and Jackson had been an idiot again such that Lydia had banished him, which was not terribly convenient for a pack meeting, though no one dared highlight this fact for her. The actual issue had been given so little concentration before the supposed meeting descended into anarchy that Stiles couldn’t even remember what the problem was. It was probably dangerous, it would probably inspire utter terror in him later, but everyone had been tired with the end of the week and before he’d even realised they’d gone off topic, the group was watching the Winter Soldier on the television as he casually stepped sideways out of the path of Fury’s wrecked and upturned truck while it screeched against the road in a trail of smoke. 

The movie was enthralling. It made top five in Stiles’ list of favourite movies ever, though the other four were an ever-evolving collective that he had never really decided for sure. Stiles had been sitting on the couch next to Scott, threatening to braid his hair if he didn’t share the popcorn that had inexplicably appeared at the same time as Peggy Carter had done so on screen. Lydia was on Scott’s other side, and Isaac took up a space on the floor, constantly shifting positions as the movie worked him into even more charged emotional states. Derek sat in the separate armchair set an angle to the couch, watching in silence, forearms resting on his knees and eyes watching the screen from underneath dark lashes and a furrowed brow. They were having a surprisingly nice time, a break from all the human and not-quite-human peril that seemed to envelop their every waking moment. 

Stiles had slumped all the way down in his spot on the couch so that his head rested on the back, fingers drumming softly on his stomach, and whining like a cat every time someone hit Steve hard enough to misshape the soldier’s perfect and dreamy hair. Reclining just so meant that from there he could see between Scott’s head as it leaned in close to the television, and Lydia’s, who had long since reclined like some Grecian goddess, to Derek’s face frozen still while the screen subtly lit up his features and put points of light in his eyes. 

“He’s not the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.” Sam Wilson looked sympathetically at Cap’s pained face as he told him not to hold out hope for his suddenly resurrected friend. 

Stiles’ heart tightened at the on-screen angst, and held on to the feeling, the certain pain you get from fandom angst being too delicious to let slide away that easily. When he let it go, finally, as Cap fought for his friend, and glanced over at Derek for the tenth time in as many minutes…

Wait.

Stiles felt suddenly cold.

Derek’s face was dark. Incredibly dark. Not like a shadow, but the dark of there being no hope at all, no way out, no way forward. The kind of dark like falling down a rabbit hole and then all at once realising that you’ll never stop falling, that from here on out, the black is all there is. Derek’s brows had knitted together and his eyes were overcast with rage. His jaw tightened and Stiles could see the muscles in its hinge bulge hard and tight as his teeth surely pressed painfully down on one another. The cords of Derek’s neck stood out violently, like an invisible hand was strangling him. Stiles couldn’t see his hands, but would have bet anything they were clenched into fists. No one else had noticed, and Stiles wracked his brain for an explanation but found none.

“You all need to leave”, Derek said quietly, but his voice was thick and laced with a barely restrained fury.

“What?”, Lydia looked incredulous.

“Leave. Right now”.

Everyone stared in silence at him as Derek remained totally still on the armchair, his eyes fixed on no point in particular, but more intense than they’d ever seen. Even Stiles, human as he was, could feel the heat as it rolled off Derek’s form and sought to make everyone uncomfortable. It was a raw energy, vibrating out into the room but choking like smog, and Stiles swallowed nervously as it hit him, inexplicably.

“Get out. Get out!” Derek shouted. It was harsh, and Stiles saw Isaac wince, while Scott stiffened beside him. 

Then Derek was up, grabbing at clothes, flinging people to their feet like they were dolls that had tumbled over, growling deep and low in his throat and shoving them out the door, the anger in the air hitting them all like a tidal wave. Stiles didn’t say a word even when the door shut in his face.

“What the hell is his problem?!” Lydia cried as she made her way down through the building and out to the cold evening air. 

“Fuck knows”. Scott was pissed. He had the kindest heart in the world but Derek had never fully endeared himself to that heart, and his outburst certainly didn’t help. 

Lydia brushed the incident off and – likely concluding it wiser to give Derek space at the moment – she declared she was hungry, suggesting they all go out for something to eat before going home. Stiles was rooted to the spot just outside the door to the building, the cold air seeping through his hoodie not even contending with the chill he felt inside. 

“He’s breaking things, isn’t he?” he asked to the group in general, his voice quiet, interrupting the restaurant discussion.

Scott looked up from his phone, pausing in typing what was probably a text to Allison, and gazed cursorily at the floor of the loft, listening.

“Yeah, as per always, no surprise there”, he turned back to his phone.

Stiles exhaled slowly but the breath felt rickety in his lungs.

“So… what, that Chinese place from last week?” Lydia hedged impatiently, unsurprisingly still on the topic of food. Nevermind the scenes of carnage playing out above them.

Stiles raised his head to look at her with disapproval, but his eye was caught by Isaac’s sympathetic gaze. His puppy-like face showed he was clearly distressed, but whether it was by the events upstairs or Stiles’ worry, Stiles couldn’t tell. They said nothing, though, as the other two continued making plans, and Stiles looked away, moodily.

“Yeah sounds good, Allison says she can meet us wherever once she’s done”.

“You?” Lydia had turned to Isaac, who looked at her warily for a moment, and nodded once, exactly once.

“Stiles?”

Stiles had focused on a small spot of the pavement where a snail had managed to make a perfect three-point turn, and tried to similarly streamline the raging multitude of thoughts in his head. No, not so much thoughts, as noise, so much noise, and it all felt wrong.

“Stiles.” There was a slight edge in her voice now, just to nudge.

He looked up at Lydia’s undoubtedly beautiful face, her intelligent eyes that only hinted at the immense intellect behind them, but he found absolutely nothing of interest there. There was a time when he would have toppled over with joy at Lydia asking him to come along with her, to anything. But Stiles’ shoulders were tight and he frowned. 

Things were being broken upstairs, and Stiles’ human ears couldn’t hear a damn sound. Something about that felt very wrong. It needed to be rectified.

“Nah, sorry”, he finally choked out, “I’ve got stuff I should probably do, but I’ll catch you guys later”.

Lydia made a noncommittal noise and turned to walk away with a cursory farewell and a flick of her hair. Stiles smiled reassuringly at Scott – who raised a brow but didn’t inquire – and caught Isaac’s eye one last time before spinning on his heel and making his way to his Jeep. He sat in the driver’s seat pretending to be messaging on his phone until he heard the others drive away. 

Not entirely sure that he had thought this through, not totally content with the quaking in his stomach, the phantom hook tugging in his chest, but resolute nonetheless, Stiles left the car again and raced into the building.

*

“He’s not the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.”

Derek had stopped breathing, he remembered as he threw a chair at the wall and bit hard on his tongue, trying to wash away his uncle Peter’s words with the taste of his blood.

_No one’s going to save you, Derek, you can only be stopped. Your friends will realise how broken you are soon enough._

He had said it what felt like an age ago, and it was a common theme. That Derek should have died that day, that for all the world neither of them could find a reason why it was better that he had lived instead of another. The implication of the inevitable loss of his current pack, his bourgeoning family, once they realised they were in league with a monster, had hung in the air like an acrid stench, its intangible tendrils coiling fear into Derek’s body. But it felt so long ago.

And then Derek had been watching a movie with the people he cared about and the memory returned in vivid technicolour. It hit him in the chest like a bullet, the trigger pulled by a single line of dialogue. He’d stopped breathing. It had been a long time since it hit him like this, the episodes of half memory half hallucination, his mind spiralling off course and leaving him reeling. 

He heard Peter’s voice as he sat there with the others around him, and though it was in his head, it was clear and sharp as if the man were standing before him. Derek felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as fear and anger and pain mingled in his gut, sickening him to his core. His vision blacked out, Peter’s voice echoing vaguely, and all Derek could smell was ash. He hadn’t been there, that day, but he should have been. Instead the sensory memory that his mind had clung to as being closest to the fire, had been the bleak and overwhelming smell of ash and smoke afterwards. It was the smell that to this day could creep into Derek’s dreams without warning and leave him feeling suffocated, cold and alone in his bed. Derek felt his muscles tense and vibrate, his jaw clench as his hands curled into tight fists. He wasn’t willing his body to do this, and he felt a sudden pang of fear at the realisation that he was losing control. 

That’s when he violently threw the others out. He would isolate himself, as he had before, always without explanation, but it was for their own good. He didn’t like it, treating them that way, but he had already lost enough composure that every second the others were still around him was a risk they shouldn’t take. Amongst the pulsing heat of anger, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, the increasing tension in muscles he struggled to keep from striking out, Derek caught a glimpse of Stiles’ face, the horror there, and it twisted a knife somewhere inside him. 

But the thought was gone an instant later as Derek felt flames lap at his ankles. He slammed the door and didn’t even hear the heartbeats retreat. He hadn’t been there that day. But he’d visited the carnage in his dreams, the dreams that approximated full blown hallucinations better than they did the phenomena of normal sleep. It was like the universe was trying to rectify the injustice of it all by having Derek live through the fire, himself. However illusory it was, it felt real, and as Derek turned around in the loft and upended the armchair he’d been sitting in, every one of his senses keened with sensations of heat, pain, the sound of screams.

He could barely see what he was doing, like the chord between his mind and the outside world had been snapped, and he was trapped inside his head. He could see but he didn’t truly register any sight, the border between reality and illusion suddenly blurred. The crashing of furniture didn’t drown out the crackle of the flames that he felt grabbing at his skin. 

When it bit particularly deep, Derek turned and balled his hand into a fist, feeling the energy course down his arm. He punched the wall, felt something in his hand break and it pulled him out of the episode for a fraction of a second, but before the bone had even begun healing he was lost, again. 

He flung his body wildly around, trying to grasp any sense of his own form in the space around him, to convince his mind that he was really here, not _there. Never there._ He felt smoke enter his lungs and he coughed despite himself. 

A white and sharp pain briefly brought his vision back into focus when the chair he’d thrown shattered apart on the floor and a sharp piece of the wooden shrapnel sliced Derek’s bicep as it shot through the air. 

_No one’s going to save you, Derek, you can only be stopped._

He roared into the empty air and crashed his fists into the wall. When he whirled around to grab something else, he didn’t see the blood and skin his hands had left behind. 

_Your friends will realise –_

Derek overturned the armchair again. A phantom scream sounded in his ears.

_how broken you are –_

He kicked the coffee table and its leg shattered into a million pieces.

soon enough.

He breathed heavily as he fell on his knees. All the while the flames burned. They were burning him.

_Soon enough._

He punched the cold, hard ground.

_Soon enough._  
 _Soon enough._  
 _Soon enough._

Derek was crouching forward. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, his breath catching in his lungs. The black slick of pain in his gut turned hot and raw as he saw the faces of his pack behind his eyelids. 

They were horrified. He was a monster. 

He was a monster and now they knew and they were going to leave. 

Not dead, but still gone.

_Soon enough._

Derek spread his palms on the cold floor, his body curled in on itself and he took a deep breath. He drew his head back and closed his eyes as he felt the flames lick up his spine and eat at his ribs, ready to snap his head forward and crash it into the solid unyielding floor with all the supernatural strength and force he possessed. At the very least it would knock him out. At the most…

_You can only be stopped._

He let out a breath.

He jerked his head.

And couldn’t move.

Slender arms coursed suddenly around his shoulders and hands linked together over his chest. A shaking body was pressed flush against his back. The grip tightened, pinning Derek’s arms to his side as warm breath huffed onto his neck. 

The flames searing his skin dissolved into wisps of the illusion they were. The screaming died away when a sharp chin came to rest at the crook of his neck. The bones of Derek’s hands cracked and popped as they healed, the pain somehow feeling more genuine, more real. He felt a racing heartbeat pulsing into the muscles of his back. It chorused with his own. At the protestation of his lungs – Derek hadn’t realised he’d stopped breathing – he sharply sucked in the air, and was overcome. The smell of ash and burning had inexplicably vanished and was replaced with something familiar, something safe. It was overwhelming and Derek could almost taste it on his tongue.

_Stiles._

Derek’s eyes flew open, the world crashing into focus and he shot up, unceremoniously breaking free of the embrace to put distance between himself and those arms. He whipped around and looked down at Stiles still kneeling on the floor, arms resting limply on his lap. His arms actually looked empty. The boy’s face was ashen, his eyes wide, and red where there ought to have been white; they were searching Derek’s face from underneath hollowed lids. Derek felt some alarm at the stark difference from the young guy with flushed cheeks happily teasing his friend less than an hour ago. But the fear disguised as raw and white hot anger still coursed in Derek’s veins and he felt himself bristle.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

*

Stiles knocked on the door as loud as he could, but he realised the sound of crashing furniture coming from the other side of it would have been enough to drown out the sound, even for a werewolf. A grim chill shivered down his body when he heard Derek roar. It was like the final crescendo of every growl Stiles had ever heard from the man. Any remaining doubt in his head vanished to make way for a very singular thought.

_Have to get in. Have to be there._

He was frantic. In the end he fished out his spare key to the loft, the one he kept in his back pocket, in case of pack emergencies, and unlocked the door himself. Some small part of his brain protested that he was invading Derek’s space, that Derek didn’t want him to go inside, that he should leave. Without analysing what it meant to do so, Stiles sharply silenced that part of him, opting instead for the part that was screaming that Derek needed him.

He wrenched the door open, the desperation that had built inside him as he’d made his way back from the car finally coming to a head. 

The loft was worse than he could have imagined, but Stiles didn’t notice any of it, his eyes falling only on the figure inside. Derek was crouched on the ground with his back to the doorway, every single muscle vibrating under his skin. He didn’t turn, didn’t even startle at the noise of the opened door. 

Stiles felt sick.

Then Derek flattened his palms and reared his head back. His intention was clear, and Stiles visualised the impact before he could stop himself.

_No no no no no no no._

And in an instant he was there, stopping it. A sudden heat had welled deep in Stiles’ chest as he stood by the door while the rest of him went cold all over. He had moved faster than he’d ever done before, crossing the room in a heartbeat, unthinking, not registering his own steps. His vision went black, inwards from the periphery, until there was only Derek. The noise in Stiles’ head had long since gone silent. He collapsed on the ground behind the werewolf, and flung his arms around him, pulling him back, into the body whose slightness he now regretted. He clasped his hands together over Derek’s chest, pinning those strong arms to his side anticipating the fall out, gripping as though otherwise Derek would somehow evaporate. 

Derek’s head had jerked forward but was stopped short, his brow was still perfect, his skin unbroken. Stiles felt him go instantly still in his arms, the shock momentarily startling him, but his body did not go rigid at the touch, just stilled. Derek’s body heat seeped into Stiles’ chest, melting away the iciness that had crept in with clawing, freezing fingers, threatening to strangle the strange new warmth there. 

He heard the bones of Derek’s hands work on being whole again, could well imagine the raw knuckles healing as brand new skin closed over the wounds. Stiles put his chin on Derek’s shoulder, and felt a muscle there twitch. 

Stiles wanted to speak but no words came, he had no idea what could be said. All the sarcasm and wit in the world would never erase what he had seen Derek preparing to do, and could never explain what had pulled him down here to embrace him. Because that’s how it had felt: like he’d been pulled, like he never had a choice, not really.

Stiles felt the exact moment Derek realised what was happening. Derek had heaved in a deep breath and Stiles somehow knew that his eyes had been closed all this time, but that they were now surely open. The body in his embrace stiffened and Stiles felt some inexplicable chord of connection snap, a metaphorical wall going up between them. 

In the next second Derek was across the room staring down at him. Stiles had barely seen him move. His arms felt empty as they lay in his lap, and he could feel how hot his face had become.

He’d only just realised, fully, what he’d done. It crossed a line somehow and Stiles could only look at Derek through his eyelashes, a guilt that swirled inside him refusing to let him raise his head. But he’d had to do it, had to stop him, and he would defend that decision to the day he died.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

*

Derek looked down at Stiles, waiting for an answer. The boy looked like he’d been kicked, but also like he felt ashamed of it. It was bizarre. 

But at the harshness in Derek’s tone, Derek saw something click into place on Stiles’ face – a dark anger – and the younger man raised his chin, rising from the ground to stand up to his full height.

“Disarming your self-destruct sequence, apparently”. Stiles’ jaw clenched and his hands fisted at his side.

The words stung without permission. 

“Get out, Stiles”.

“Oh, what? No thank you?” Stiles flung his arms in the air in frustration, “No thanks so much, Stiles, for not letting me bash my own brains out against the concrete!? Leaving god only knows what kind of mess of my body behind for my friends to find later!?”

There was a knife in Derek’s gut and it twisted ninety degrees as Stiles spoke. Derek didn’t think Stiles had known what he was about to do. Thinking about one of his pack returning to find him…

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said quietly, but with intensity. Stiles had no idea what Derek had gone through in these last minutes. He had no right to return and add to Derek’s guilt, none at all. 

“No you’re right, I really fucking don’t”. Stiles advanced two steps and Derek could feel his anger permeating the air. “All I know is that we’re watching a movie and you go fucking insane and kick us all out, trash your own place, and then I find you a millisecond away from being zombie food all over the floor. So please, enlighten me, I’d dearly love to know what the hell is going on”. 

Stiles huffed a long sigh and his arms fell to his side in resignation.

“Give it up, Stiles, it doesn’t concern you,” Derek growled out, and turned away with his fists clenched, deeming the conversation over.

But he was obviously mistaken, a surprisingly strong and cold hand closing around his upper arm and yanking to spin him around. Derek’s gaze connected with amber eyes that brimmed with rage, and he heard Stiles’ heart beat rapidly. But the beat was consistent, totally resolute.

“It doesn’t concern me?!” was the dark, whispered shout, that rang in Derek’s ears, and it was shocking.

There was the sharp jab of fingers in his chest as Stiles shoved at him roughly. 

“Am I just supposed to know a guy, save his life, be saved by him a couple times, be a member of his fucking pack, and then not give a shit? Is that how you think this works?!”

Stiles’ eyes were redder than before as he shoved at Derek a second time.

“Yes!” Derek shouted as he swatted away Stiles’ hands and took two steps back. “That’s exactly how it works! What? Did you think we were going to play happy family, ask each other about our day, hug it out?!”

Stiles stared at him, horror betrayed in all his features.

“No,” Derek seethed, “You’ll come here to make sure you survive and then you’ll leave, and the others will leave, and you won’t look back! That’s how it works!” Derek didn’t mean for his voice to falter at the mention of Stiles leaving – leaving _him_ – but he spat out the words and hoped it went unnoticed. He stood before Stiles with his chest heaving, fists clenched, his entire body in a fighting stance, and Derek supposed that’s what he was doing.

But Stiles’ face wasn’t angry anymore. His eyes were wide with shock and Derek watched his brows rise and knit together. He was _worried_.

“Is that what you think this pack is? That we’re just around you to survive?”

Derek breathed heavily as Stiles took a step forward, leaving maybe two short paces between them now. 

“Derek, listen to me”, Stiles’ voice had gone low and he spoke softly, “None of us come here just to save our own skins. We – the others and I – care about _you_. You’re like the centre of us. You know that right? You’ve got to know that.”

Derek felt something twist horribly around inside him. The slightest glimmer of hope alighted in his heart. He stomped on it. It was such a lie.

“You’re so stupid”, Derek spat, and to hear those words in his own voice, and directed at Stiles, pained him. He pushed the aching aside and looked Stiles in the eye, daring him.

Stiles swallowed hard, his cheeks flaming. He looked down to the ground and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking smaller than before.

“That’s probably true,” he said quietly, not looking up, and the ache throbbed again in Derek’s chest. “But I’m smart enough to know that this pack needs you, and we want you to stay, so forgive me for crashing your little rage party, but I wasn’t going to – I couldn’t – I didn’t want you to be alone.” Stiles looked up, finally, searching Derek’s eyes.

Derek stared at him for the shortest of moments. Stiles’ face was open, completely honest and genuine. Derek shifted uncomfortably and gazed into the space above Stiles’ shoulder. He couldn’t meet his eyes, and the guilt over all the things he’d just said lapped at his throat like acid. 

“I’m always alone, Stiles, that’s just how it is, how it should be.”

“Derek, that’s not tr- 

“You should go.”

Derek looked at the floor, his mouth dry and full of regret. He let his hands unclench in surrender. He heard the beat of Stiles’ heart falter for just a moment, and the huff of air as Stiles quietly scoffed in surprise. When he heard Stiles move his feet, making for the door, Derek got a sinking feeling, the feeling of falling, the kind that jolts you awake at night for no good reason. He didn’t want Stiles to leave – he really didn’t – and that terrified him, for a reason he wouldn’t allow himself to analyse. But Derek didn’t have the right to expect anything from him, either. Stiles should leave, Derek told himself, it would be better for him, and probably sooner rather than later.

But Stiles didn’t walk to the door. Derek heard, but didn’t quite register that Stiles had moved toward him, instead, had closed the distance between them, until one pale arm wrapped around his neck, the other around his waist, and a soft lithe body pressed closely against him. Long fingers found his nape and spread with solid pressure through his hair. Derek didn’t know his head had fallen into Stiles’ neck until he breathed in, his nose against soft pale skin, and Stiles’ scent enveloped him completely.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Stiles’ voice was steady, stating a plain and simple fact. The utter lack of doubt in his tone sent a thrill down Derek’s spine that he didn’t understand – it was good, so good, but he felt like it wasn’t allowed. Not for him. Never for him. And then he remembered why.

Derek stiffened and pulled away, or rather pushed Stiles away, the sudden loss of heat and closeness hitting him like a slap to the face. Stiles just looked at him, patient, unperturbed, searching Derek’s face mere inches from his own.

“You shouldn’t hang around me so much,” said Derek, gruffly, “you could be gone a lot sooner than you had planned”. The implication was heavy, and Stiles eyes widened as it obviously sunk in: people around Derek died. 

Derek tried to look angry, unapproachably so, then maybe Stiles would get angry with him, enough to finally leave, save himself the trouble.

Stiles, however, furrowed his brow and reached out to place his hands on Derek’s shoulders, squeezing at reassuring intervals, thumbs massaging small circles into the muscle. He bit his lip, and Derek had to look sharply away. 

“If I die early, because let’s be realistic here, with my life, it could happen –“ 

Derek’s eyes jerked back to Stiles’ face in alarm.

“- then it’s not going to be because of you. It _won’t_ be your fault, Derek.”

Stiles shook Derek’s shoulders in emphasis of the last point. It struck Derek as terribly naïve, infuriatingly so. Derek was the catalyst for whatever horrors came their way. Without him they would all be safe. Stiles would be safe.

“Of course it will be my fucking fault. You wouldn’t have to deal with any of this shit if it weren’t for me. Jesus, Stiles, you’re going to get killed because of me! Sooner or later!” He harshly hit Stiles’ hands away. “Everyone does!” his voice raised in volume with every word. “The fact you’re too stupid to leave before then doesn’t change that!”

Derek turned away and took a step.

“The fire wasn’t your fault, either.” Stiles blurted.

Derek froze. He felt his spine stiffen and the muscles under it quake. He was vaguely aware of the wolf cowering somewhere inside of him, Derek’s anger, as always, scaring and pushing it down. It took all of a millisecond for him to whip around and grab Stiles. The rage coursed through his veins like a drug. He pushed Stiles across the room and pinned him against the wall, Derek’s forearm resting across his throat, pushing enough to make the threat known. Stiles struggled for all of a moment, the air going out of him as his back slammed into the wall, toes barely touching the ground, but he stilled when he caught Derek’s eye.

“You have no fucking right”, Derek growled, low and seething. “You have no idea –“

“It wasn’t your fault”. Stiles’ voice was small but steady. The amber eyes staring out from under those long lashes were clearly fearful, but stubbornness crept in at their edges.

“Shut up!” Derek snapped, a guttural growl passing through his lips. He pushed a fraction harder against Stiles’ throat. Their breaths mingled together in the intervening air.

“It wasn’t your fault”. There were hands on Derek’s hips, thumbs pressing into the flesh, confident. The touch was warm.

“I said, shut up!” Derek screamed and reared back to slam Stiles into the wall again. 

The younger man groaned, it clearly winded him, but his hands didn’t surrender their hold on Derek’s hips, and when Stiles’ eyes found Derek’s again, they were absolutely afire. Stiles leaned his head forward, hooked his chin over the arm against his throat, and stared pointedly into Derek’s eyes as he pressed his own throat _further_ into the solid muscle of Derek’s forearm, his breath becoming more laboured. Derek’s mouth opened slightly in shock. Stiles wasn’t afraid, not at all, and when he spoke his voice was straining against the pressure to his throat, but it was determined.

“It wasn’t your fault”.

Derek released him suddenly and staggered back with a mixture of fear and horrendous uncertainty welling within him. Every instinct rebelled against the words, every thought one of mistrust. Derek could feel the words’ promise calling him to believe it, but his mind greeted them with coldness. No. He wasn’t to be forgiven. He couldn’t be excused. 

Stiles slumped against the wall, slowly taking in air, his expression darkly resolute and unwavering. His eyes never left Derek’s face. It was too much.

“Who the hell do you think you are?!” Derek shouted, hands rising to clasp around his neck, chest heaving, his nerves firing with the confusion that crept into his mind, the disbelief. 

“It wasn’t your fault”. Stiles had risen from the wall and stood tall before him. His voice was steady and his eyes were still burning. Derek had never seen him look stronger.

“Don’t fuck with me! You asshole!” Derek’s shout echoed through the open space. He saw Stiles flinch at its pitch, but his expression remained the same. 

Stiles began to step forward, slowly, ever so slowly. His gaze never dropped from Derek’s own.

“It wasn’t… your… fault”. 

Stiles’ voice was just a whisper.

Something deep inside Derek reached out. It started to let the words in.

It terrified him.

“Don’t you dare…” But Derek’s voice was weak. His face flushed with heat, eyes blown wide, and his breath quivered as he exhaled. Stiles kept moving forward. “I swear to God, Stiles…”

Their faces were only inches apart. Derek could feel Stiles impose himself onto the air around them. It felt like pure strength. Derek, every nerve electrified, doubt twisting in his gut, stared into the eyes before him – and feared he might drown in them. They spoke of safety and warmth, and love. Stiles leaned in until Derek could feel his breath on his face. He whispered so softly, the words barely existed.

“None of it… was _ever_ … your fault”.

And then Derek was falling. His legs gave out under him and he half expected the ground to swallow him whole. Instead, surprisingly strong arms reached around his middle and caught him before the full impact, surprising Derek down to his core. Stiles eased them both down to the ground, gripping tight around Derek’s body and masking the huff of air as he caught Derek’s solid weight. 

They kneeled together on the floor. Stiles didn’t let go for a second. 

Derek’s face felt hot against the crook of Stiles’ neck and his eyes stung as walls were still crashing down inside his head. Or maybe they were peeling back, like old wallpaper, raw wounds revealed underneath. Something contracted deep in Derek’s chest and he stopped breathing, again. Stiles’ words reverberated in his head and each time they seemed less and less like a lie. 

“I’ve got you, big guy” came Stiles’ whisper, issued intimately into Derek’s ear.

That set something alight in Derek, enough to make him grind his forehead further into Stiles’ skin and breathe in suddenly. Stiles’ scent rushed through his nose and into his lungs. It was everywhere, filling Derek’s senses, all sugar and cut grass, bookpaper and allspice, and under that, concern and warmth and home. Derek was pulled forcefully back into reality. And much to his own surprise, he didn’t cower away from Stiles this time, didn’t feel the fear and doubt that had bitten at him just before. Instead, without thinking, but feeling everything all at once, Derek drew his arms up around those supporting shoulders, fanned out his fingers to grip at Stiles’ back, and returned the embrace for the first time that day. Derek noted with a phantom satisfaction the sharp intake of breath in the body against him and the slight stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat. 

He hadn’t really noticed tears until Derek shifted his face to nuzzle at Stiles’ neck and felt the wetness there. He must have stiffened ever so slightly at the realisation, because Stiles gripped him tighter and Derek felt hot breath whistle down the back of his neck.

“It’s okay”. Soft lips pressed once – and only once – to the skin of Derek’s neck. He felt it all the way down to his toes.

_Shit._

He buried his face in Stiles’ shoulder – and gave in. In a second, Derek was totally gone, his body shaking and breath hitching with every inhalation. He didn’t cry out, didn’t make a sound apart from his breath, everything that he’d pressed down for ten years choking him as it made its way out. Steady hands stroked his spine – elegant hands, Derek realised – and Stiles managed, impossibly, to draw Derek even closer into him. Every huff of breath against Derek’s skin seemed to draw something else out, and he let it. _He let it_. The sobs were choked into Stiles’ flesh, and undid knots deep inside Derek that he never knew had been tied.

He’d counted on there being pain, but he never expected the relief. 

And those hands that kept kneading a steady rhythm of strokes into his spine, kept Derek in the room, refused to let him slip back into his head, refused to let go. 

Derek didn’t know how long they were there – it felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been. He did know that when his breathing started to even out, and he felt his heart slow to a calmer beat, the neckline of Stiles’ t-shirt was soaked, and Derek had at some point moved his hands down to Stiles’ waist, thumbs tracing circles into the flesh. He left them there in the silence that followed, neither of them saying a word as Derek – calmer now, curiously _empty_ , and tired beyond belief – tried to figure out what was happening. 

He’d felt like a dam had broken deep inside, and Stiles was the one that did it. Sure, the line of dialogue had triggered an episode, but it had happened before and while it was rare, it was also something Derek had just accepted as part of his lot. It wasn’t nearly as changing and transformative as whatever it was that had just occurred. Derek had let something go, a portion of guilt, maybe. He wasn’t fixed, he still felt the pain and guilt coursing within him, but it was somehow – he couldn’t articulate it – at a distance. He wasn’t drowning in it, instead it was like he, highly metaphorically speaking, was looking down on it from above, and it was there, certainly, but he saw it differently. It didn’t make up the totality of who Derek was, he could see that now, it was a distinct feeling. He didn’t know what to do with that, but hoped that it stayed.

The hands on his back had stilled, but still held on.

“Dude, what happened?” Stiles obviously tried to hide it, but his voice came out raspy, alarmed.

Derek released his hold on Stiles’ waist – with a reluctance he ignored – and sat back. Stiles’ hands moved around Derek’s shoulders and down his arms to grip softly at the werewolf’s forearms as they faced each other, still kneeling, and Derek didn’t try to remove them, the warmth was nice, grounding. Wide brown eyes searched Derek’s face. He wracked his brain for anything to say that would restore some level of normalcy to this situation, but it was too late, every barrier had been broken down. All pretence had shattered when Stiles had burst in to the loft, and now, Derek realised, it would be more ridiculous to _not_ tell Stiles everything. 

“The movie triggered a memory of something Peter said to me once. You know, the usual, you-should-have-died-and-not-them mind games”, he said quickly. He looked up at Stiles in time to see the boy wince, before his expression became open, receiving everything as Derek continued, “it’s happened before: a phrase or a smell makes a memory come back, I get bombarded with all that shit, feel things that aren’t there, hallucinations, and I lose control…”

Stiles swallowed, his eyes unfocused as his brain worked things through.

“You didn’t want to hurt any of us…”, he said.

Derek’s eyes widened a little. He had counted on the others amounting his outburst to Derek just being an asshole, would have never admitted otherwise. Stiles could be eerily perceptive, sometimes, and when he was it always caught Derek off guard. No one really gave Stiles enough credit. 

Derek nodded, once.

“I’m sorry…” he choked out.

“Don’t worry about it”, said Stiles, “The others will get over it. I just.. I get it – I can understand – how these things just creep up on you. You can’t control everything.”

Derek remembered about Stiles’ panic attacks. Of course Stiles understood, it made Derek feel better and worse simultaneously.

“Thanks”, he whispered, “for before - for not letting me, you know…”, Derek’s voice suddenly shifted to one of panic, “Oh fuck, Stiles, the things I said… I – I nearly _choked_ you, I could’ve – “

“So – same old, same old, basically”, Stiles said with a huff of laughter as he raised a hand and clapped Derek on the shoulder.

“Shut up, you asshole”, Derek whispered, and shook his head, but the corners of his mouth pricked up slightly.

“Whatever, man, you owe me”. 

Stiles’ hand was still on his shoulder. Derek looked into his eyes and sighed, but it was with softness.

“Yeah, yeah I really do”, he said pointedly, and it was true. 

Stiles went very still and held his gaze. Derek, not sure what he was doing, but spurned on by a warmth beating within him, turned over the arm that was still in Stiles’ grasp, and returned the hold, his fingers tracing slowly over the thin and pale skin of Stiles’ inner wrist. He heard the stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat, sensed the added heat in his body as the younger man’s face flushed. A pinprick of pride grew in Derek at the realisation that he’d done that. 

“I had to get in, Derek. It felt, I don’t even know, _wrong_ leaving. I couldn’t just… I _had_ to get in.”

They fell silent for a moment, Derek’s chest feeling tight, before Stiles continued.

“Like I said… I’m not going anywhere”.

And he suddenly took hold of Derek’s tracing fingers, gripped his hand tight. Derek went still, his eyes dropping to stare silently at their entwined hands. The warmth flamed now inside his chest, and he finally realised what it was, what it meant to him, mentally kicking himself for not realising before. He hadn’t said anything, yet, and Stiles’ grip loosened slightly.

“If… if that’s okay with you.. that is…” he sounded uncertain, vulnerable, and it jolted Derek out of his reverie, his eyes snapping back to Stiles. The decision didn’t even take a second.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” he breathed.

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up and a wondering smile teased at his features, but never made it. In a flash Derek had wound his free hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and drew him in at the same time Derek surged forward. Their lips didn’t meet so much as collide. It was messy and frantic, full of want, and Stiles gasped, but when Derek pushed Stiles returned it completely, his soft lips needy and searching, deepening the kiss. His hand had moved from Derek’s shoulder to his hair where long fingers kneaded and pulled. Their linked hands parted only for each man’s arm to circle around the other’s body, drawing them flush against each other. Stiles nipped playfully at Derek’s lower lip and his breath caught in his throat. Derek let the sound of their heartbeats – rapid and beating in beautiful tandem – fill his ears as he passed his tongue over Stiles’ lip and was let into his mouth without hesitation. They searched into each other hungrily, breath mingling and tongues passing over each other, sending shivers down Derek’s spine.

“ _Fuck-_ “ Stiles gasped in between breaths.

Derek smiled against his lips and brought the hand around Stiles’ neck forward to cradle his jaw, rub his thumb across the cheekbone, all the while sucking and biting further into the kiss. It was deep and heady, Derek felt himself getting lost in it and didn’t care, every fibre of his being revelling in the feel of Stiles against him, the lithe body warm and pushing into him and hands gripping him tight, keeping Derek in place. Not that he would have left. Derek breathed Stiles in and another smile spread over his lips before Stiles kissed over it. Stiles smelled like he always did, but it was muskier and hot, and this time, Derek’s scent was all over him, pressed into his clothes and skin from Stiles holding him before. Derek liked it, it set something off in him to smell himself on Stiles’ skin, their scents mingling, it felt right. Stiles’ hand moved to Derek’s lower back and pushed their hips together.

“ _Holy fuck, Stiles_ ”, Derek breathed as he felt himself stir, and ground their hips together again.

Stiles moaned into Derek’s mouth, and Derek melted all over.

And then all of a sudden, Stiles was pushing away, his lips robbing Derek’s of their warmth, his hands on Derek’s shoulders, forcing them apart. Derek felt a pang of fear. Maybe he’d read everything wrong, gone too fast, meant it more than he should have –

“Don’t do this if it’s just because you’re hurting.” Stiles blurted, he looked downcast and panicked. 

“What?”

“Don’t do _this-_ ," he gestured between them, “if it’s just some way to make _you_ feel _better_. I can’t fucking do that, man, I won’t be able to take it-“

“Stiles”

“No. You’ve no idea, no fucking clue, what it’ll do to me –“

“ _Stiles_ ”

“Are you even listening?! Jesus, Derek-“

Derek cut him off with a kiss. This one was gentle, tentative, and so saccharine sweet it would have repelled the werewolf if it hadn’t, that is, been here and now – with Stiles. It lasted all of a second and when he drew back to look at Stiles, Derek hoped his own expression looked just as scared and raw as he felt. God, he was doomed. He wanted this, really wanted it, and he felt the weight of it threatening to crush him as he searched Stiles’ face for any kind of response. 

“Does that mean what I think?”, said Stiles, eyes wide and passing his tongue over his lips, over the ghost of Derek’s touch.

Derek swallowed and nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Stiles’ gaze. Stiles exhaled a shaky breath as he seemed to be processing this, and his hand came up to rest on Derek’s chest, feeling the quavering heartbeat there, palm pressing firmly into the flesh over his sternum. Without thinking, Derek raised his own hand and captured Stiles’ fingers where they were pressing to his heart. Stiles’ eyes snapped to Derek’s and tightened his hand around Derek’s grasp, and Derek held their hands there against his breast, his heart frantic beneath them, realising that now Stiles knew his heartbeat as well as Derek knew his. 

“I really want this”, said Derek, and immediately hated the way his voice faltered. But stared in awe as Stiles’ face brightened.

“Me too”, Stiles smiled, unguarded and warm. “Wait, how long has this…”, he said, and Derek could practically see his mind flash back to their previous interactions, searching for any clue that _this_ was buzzing underneath them. Derek huffed and his face was pained.

“For both five minutes, and forever. I was too stupid to… realise, I guess”

Stiles swallowed and quirked a small smile, “Well, me too.”

Derek grinned at that, actually grinned, wide and genuine, and the warmth inside him sparked again.

“Stiles, let me be clear, I think that I’m a terrible decision for you. The worst, and you’d be completely stupid to choose me. I’m just… I’m feeling selfish enough at the moment to not, really, care.”

“Well Jesus, Derek” Stiles rolled his eyes, “ – apart from the fact that you’re a total catch, so you can just shut up with the whole I-am-poison bullshit –“, there was that tightening in Derek’s chest, again, “when have you _ever_ known me to make a decision out of self-preservation? Hmm?”

Their hands were still linked when Stiles moved forward and planted a firm kiss on Derek’s lips before the latter could even huff out a startled laugh. This kiss was a declaration, the formal acceptance letter of all physical gestures. Derek pushed back into it as Stiles’ other hand gripped Derek’s hip and kneaded the flesh. Derek’s free hand came up and he cradled Stiles’ jaw, and he could already predict that doing so was going to become a habit. When they pulled their lips away, a small whimper sounding in Stiles’ throat, Derek took in the sight of Stiles’ flushed cheeks and his swollen lips, and unable to stop himself, leaned in to press another brief kiss to them, like a signature, an agreement to something that entailed both of them together. For a moment they just looked at each other.

“So, what now?”, Derek said.

“I don’t know, dude,” Stiles huffed a nervous chuckle and shook his head, “The movies never really go over this part, you know? They just kind of have the pining idiots make out at the end and then jump to some happy domestic scene. Maybe the bit in between is too freaking awkward to film.” Stiles was speaking very fast.

“Are you insinuating we’re in a rom-com?”

“I was thinking, more like the romantic subplot of an epic, supernatural, action saga. But that still skips over the after-love-declaration part, so it doesn’t really help. I don’t know, I’m used to things where the ships sink without ceremony, if you know what I mean. I don’t have a big reference base for happy endings.”

“Maybe this one could help out with that.”

Stiles visibly blushed, the heat spreading all the way down his neck and certainly to his chest under the t-shirt. It looked amazing, and Derek took particular pains to secure the memory, not wanting to forget. At his chest, Derek’s fingers brushed constantly back and forth over Stiles’.

“Oh, well, look at which werewolf is suddenly smooth as fuck. Thanks, dude, I didn’t need that train of thought, anyway. Good god, you’re a menace, do you know that?”

“Do you?”

Derek leaned in and started planting tiny kisses on Stiles’ throat, allowing himself to be so daring he heard Stiles’ breath catch and practically felt the heat as his blush deepened. He took a deep breath and let Stiles’ scent envelop him for a moment. 

“Well shit”, Stiles said, voice shaking.

A smile broke across Derek’s lips as he slid his mouth against the skin of Stiles’ throat and moved the soft pecking kisses up to just under his jawline, closer to his ear.

“Stiles…” he breathed.

“Mmm?”

“Maybe we could just finish the movie?”

 

*

It was unreal, lying on the couch with Stiles against him, but it felt good in a way that Derek hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years, the closeness was practically cathartic. Derek was on his back with Stiles’ head on his chest, the younger man’s body rising and falling with Derek’s own breath, his legs fitting neatly between Derek’s own. Stiles had his hand on Derek’s ribs just below his pectoral, and was lazily dragging his thumb back and forth in appreciative little strokes. 

They had started out sitting normally, bodies only slightly turned to each other. But the absence of Stiles’ hand in his own after grasping it for so long had set something to ache in Derek’s chest. Within minutes Derek had wound his arms around Stiles’ shoulders and drawn him in, pulling back and reclining them both; ignoring the surprised yelp from Stiles, but definitely savouring the contented sigh that came after. 

Derek had expected to not be able to pay any attention to the rest of the movie, that he would be too caught up in Stiles’ scent and the warmth of his body, too distracted by the urge to nuzzle into his hair at random intervals, just for a moment. But the two of them together like this seemed oddly normal, like the force of a long-established habit, and Derek found himself engaged by the scenes flickering on the screen, the dance of superheroes and villains, only snapping back to reality – a reality so sweet it almost looked hazy – when Stiles shifted against him or gasped at a pivotal moment in the film. 

Derek’s arms would tighten around Stiles during the dramatic moments as he felt Stiles’ muscles tense in emotional anticipation, and Stiles would lean into the embrace; a wordless back and forth that felt strange coming from Derek’s body, but not unnatural – just forgotten for a very long time. 

When the credits rolled, they lay in silence and watched the animations that accompanied the main actors’ names, until Stiles squirmed and muttered something about the brilliance of the one portraying Bucky Barnes – Soviet aligned in appearance but the American flag in his background, alluding to his past.

“It’s freaking genius.”

Derek only huffed in small assent at the enthusiasm. When the screen went black and various accreditations whizzed past, he lamented it with everything in him, knowing that now either they would have to accede to an inevitable period away from each other, Stiles going home and back to normal life, or Derek would have to find a half-decent excuse to get Stiles to stay. While he was pondering what they could watch on Netflix, Stiles suddenly raised his head and leaned his forearms on Derek’s chest to prop himself up, bringing eyes to meet Derek’s gaze.

“So, are we a thing, now?” Stiles looked at Derek coyly from under his eyelashes as he asked.

“Stiles, don’t be an idiot, I really don’t think I could be more obvious.” Stiles just blinked at him and Derek groaned in good-humoured annoyance. “ _Yes_. Okay? We are a thing, now. We are a very serious thing in the very serious now”.

Stiles beamed and pressed a kiss to Derek’s chest before raising his head – again, Derek felt some ambiguous constraint inside him snap and melt away. 

“Okay, well, I just wanted to be sure”, said Stiles, “and I think I ought to inform you that as the other half in a relationship, I can be needy, overly perceptive border-lining invasive, with a tendency to make innuendo, especially in public, and oh”, Stiles threw him a shit-eating grin, “I am most definitely a cuddler”.

Derek deliberately dead-panned.

“That all sounds manageable to me.”

The slightly shocked expression on Stiles’ face was going to set Derek up for the next week.

“Okay, but seriously dude, I am the worst. I can and will be extremely tactile with you. I will bear hug you in public, stroke your face for no reason – I will _definitely_ be holding your fucking hand – and if there is any chance of making the rest of the pack amazingly uncomfortable, I _will_ make out with you and feel you up in front of them”. Stiles’ mouth had set in a stubborn smirk and his eyes glittered at Derek, daring him to accept his terms.

Again, Derek schooled his features into perfect nonchalance.

“Don’t make promises unless you’re willing to keep them, Stilinski.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open with comical speed before its corners began to turn up.

“You fucker”, he said with a wide and incredulous grin, and punched Derek lightly in the ribs. 

As retaliation, Derek brought their lips together, and used his tongue to steal the breath from Stiles’ lungs.

*

They decided on binge-watching _Firefly_ – Derek noting with a pleased internal pang how reluctant Stiles was to leave him, though the daytime was fast becoming evening – and during each episode the urge to touch and to feel budded and grew within him, until as soon as the credits rolled Derek immediately captured Stiles’ mouth again, and was rewarded with kissed assurances that the same need had been growing in Stiles. There was making out, a lot of it, for long periods of time between episodes, and cheeky gropes at hot flesh as their bodies entwined on the couch. Soft lips would press gently to delicate eyelids, and noses would nuzzle into the warmth and comfort of a shoulder or neck, as fingers combed through hair and trailed down spines. There were cheekbones tentatively traced with gentle, loving hands, and small wondrous looks passed between happily crinkled eyes. And later once the moon had settled in the sky, there would be two sets of deep and regular breathing – the warm air ghosting over each other’s necks as they held each other close – and two heartbeats, slow, soft, perfectly complimentary, and beating right next to one another.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have read this all the way to the end let me just say THANK YOU, FREAKING, THANK YOU, YOU'RE THE BEST.  
> So, yeah, I hope you guys enjoyed this. It was a labour of love, because let me tell you, it was not fun getting that deep into Derek's head like that, I got stuck once or twice, you know? I hope I wrote his troubles and the whole thing convincingly.
> 
> There is meant to be a subtle allusion to Derek being like Bucky Barnes in this fic, with Stiles as his Steve. In each case the former blames himself and the latter's job is to get them through it. I used 'The Winter Soldier' because this is what Izzy and I were watching just before I started writing it. It's kind of an homage to the awesomely chill day we had. Bucky feels inevitably lead to the angsty traumatic feels, and oh *wipes sarcasm away from mouth* hello there Derek, fancy seeing you here, in amongst all the angst.
> 
> Thank you everybody!
> 
> I hope you guys and gals and variations thereupon enjoyed this fic. I automatically love you for reading it, you're superstars. *passes out cookies and mental hugs* <3<3  
> COMMENTS and KUDOS are ALWAYS WELCOME and DEEPLY APPRECIATED.


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